


Peace on Earth (let it begin with us)

by stealing-jasons-job (changingthefairy_tale)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Bellarke, F/M, Snowball Fight, grounder!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/changingthefairy_tale/pseuds/stealing-jasons-job
Summary: When Clarke had wished for peace during the winter solstice festival the night before, this is not what she had meant.“If you are willing to marry my second, you can have your political alliance, Skaigona.”Her head whips to Anya in astonishment, thinking surely she didn’t hear that right. Clarke is Anya’s second. Meaning that her clan leader just offered her up for a political marriage with an annoyingly arrogant man who has been nothing but a thorn in their side since he crash-landed on the ground months ago.***Or, an arranged marriage AU where some snowfall is the perfect opportunity for Clarke and Bellamy to get to know each other a little better.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 13
Kudos: 155
Collections: Bellarke-Mas Secret Santa





	Peace on Earth (let it begin with us)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PenguinofProse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Penguin! ❤️ I tried to mark off as many tropes from your wishlist as I could—I hope you like it! 
> 
> [Tunes for listening on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4nukYmIrblPeFQHFL5lp5f?si=hXTvo0pXSLqUexluuEde5A)

When Clarke had wished for peace during the winter solstice festival the night before, this is not what she had meant. 

“If you are willing to marry my second, you can have your political alliance,  _ Skaigona _ .” 

Her head whips to Anya in astonishment, thinking surely she didn’t hear that right. Clarke is Anya’s second. Meaning that her clan leader just offered her up for a political marriage with an annoyingly arrogant man who has been nothing but a thorn in their side since he crash-landed on the ground months ago. 

Lincoln had set up a meeting with the sky people after months of back and forth fighting. Trikru recognizes that Skaikru is mostly children and teenagers. And while that doesn’t mean they are any less dangerous, it does mean that Anya would rather not wipe them out if at all possible. 

So instead, Lincoln had managed to convince their leader—the young man Anya had taken to calling Skaigona—to meet with the three of them at the old Earth statue that stood tall at the outer edge of TonDC. Winter is here, and it’s in the best interests of both groups to stop the fighting before the first true freeze. 

But an arranged marriage was not an option that had been discussed with Clarke beforehand. 

She knows better than to question her leader and mentor in this public of a setting, but there’s no way that she is leaving her clan—her spot as Anya’s second—to marry Skaigona. Surely there was another way. Surely he wouldn’t agree to it. 

But Clarke watches as he glares at her, an expression she can’t help but mirror, and accepts Anya’s offer. “If this means peace and safety for my people, I’ll do anything.” His eyes dart to his left side where a young woman who shares his eyes stands. 

Anya turns to look at Clarke, eyes raised in expectation. Oh, so  _ now _ she wanted Clarke’s thoughts on the matter. She meets his eyes, and dammit she can see the challenge in them. His chin is raised, as if to tell her that he’s not backing down from this. It’ll have to be her. 

She thinks about her family, how her father had wanted peace between the clans more than anything else. He’d laid down his life in the end to help make it a reality. And while Skaikru was not yet a clan or a member of the coalition, this could be the first step to making that a reality. 

_ Jok.  _

She knows she can say no, that it’s ultimately her choice. Anya wouldn’t fault her for or punish her for saying no—all parties have to agree to a marriage within the Trikru clan. But even still, Clarke turns back to Anya and nods in agreement. So it’s settled—Clarke is marrying the leader of Skaikru. It’s then she realizes she doesn’t even know his name. 

She’s only seen glimpses of him in battle. He carries himself with ferocity and arrogance, which Clarke believes is more mask than anything. She’s no stranger to wearing a mask, pretending to be stronger than you are to avoid crumbling beneath the weight of your responsibilities. But his attitude still leaves a lot to be desired, especially his open disdain for her people and their way of life. As if his is superior when it was obvious the rest of their people in the sky had abandoned them to die on Earth.

“Clarke will return with you to your camp to start helping you prepare for winter. Lincoln and a handful of others we can spare will accompany him in a few days.” Anya turns, as if the discussion is now over. But the young woman who stood at Skaigona’s left stepped forward. 

“I’m staying.” 

“Octavia—” Skaigona starts to argue, voice gruff and commanding. But the woman next to him doesn’t let him get a word in. 

“You can’t stop me, brother. I’m staying with Lincoln, and I’ll come back with him in a few days.” Her tone has a finality to it, and Clarke can’t help but smile. 

She knew Lincoln was smitten with one of the young skaikru warriors, but she didn’t know it was her. She’s beautiful and has an unspoken ferocity, a trait that would serve her well on the ground. Clarke raises an eyebrow at her friend standing on the other side of Anya. 

One side of his mouth quirks in a small smile, but he otherwise avoids Clarke’s gaze. Her attention falls back to Skaigona, who is looking between Octavia and Lincoln with rage in his eyes. It seems the hotheaded nature he exhibits while fighting is a permanent fixture of his temperament. Joyful. 

Anya tells Clarke to take her horse, which will make their journey back to the Skaikru camp smoother. Snow is predicted later on, and the sooner they are back to shelter, the better. They are also sent with a few extra furs to help keep the Skaikru kids warm in the next few days. 

It’s obvious Clarke’s new fiance is uncomfortable accepting the gifts from Anya, but he doesn’t comment as they place the rolled furs on the horse. With a quick lift from Lincoln, Clarke swings herself on top of Atropos and looks expectantly at Skaigona. 

When he doesn’t move, she just raises a brow at him. “What are you waiting for?” 

“You want me to ride that? With you?” Clarke tries not to take offense to the blatant displeasure he obviously feels at the prospect of riding on the same horse as her, but his tone strikes a nerve nonetheless. 

“Unless you plan on growing an extra two legs to gallop alongside us,” she shoots back cooly. 

He grumbles something under his breath as he swings himself on the horse behind her, a little unsteady. 

“What was that?” 

“I’ve never ridden a horse before,” he repeats sheepishly, as if the words are painful to admit. “I wasn’t trying to offend you.” 

Clarke presses her lips together to prevent herself from giggling but doesn’t comment. Instead, she looks to Lincoln, Anya, and Octavia. 

“Lincoln and the others will be just a few days behind you. And I expect to see you at the solstice festival,” Anya says, coming up beside Atropos to send them off. Clarke nods, her throat suddenly thick with emotion. With both of her parents dead, Anya is the closest thing Clarke has to family. The two women lock forearms, and Anya gives her a rare smile. 

“Leida.” 

“Nou gon feva.” 

And then Clarke nudged Atropos forward and walked away from her home toward a new life. 

“You’re going to want to hang onto me,” she mentions to Skaigona. They’ve been walking for a few miles, and the trail has opened up where Atropos can gallop safely. 

But he just scoffs from behind her, his hands still resting easily on his own thighs. “I’ll be fine, Princess.” 

Clarke turns her head slightly to give him a look that hopefully let him know exactly how stupid he sounds. But when he meets her stare with a stubborn glare of his own, she just shrugs. “Have it your way, Skaigona.” And then she picks up the reins and squeezes her legs to send Atropos into a trot. 

She hears a muffled  _ fuck _ before his hands grasp her hips. She willfully ignores the way the warmth from his hands radiates through her clothes until she can feel it on her skin. Clarke isn’t blind—Skaigona is certainly not hard to look at with his dark brown curls, tanned skin, and strong frame—but there is a petty part of her that doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of finding him attractive. 

_ There are worse things than finding your future husband hot _ ,  _ Clarke _ , she reminds herself. But as soon as that thought pops into her hair, she shakes her head to get rid of it. This is going to be a very long trip if she can’t keep her thoughts off of the man seated behind her, no matter how good his hands feel as they grip her hips. . 

“I can hear the gears turning in your head, Princess,” the deep rumble of his voice at her ear pulls her from her thoughts. 

“Stop calling me that.” There’s more malice in her voice than she really means for there to be, but she refuses to apologize for her tone. 

“Not a chance,” he laughs, this deep and hearty sound that pulls a small smile against her will. Thankfully, he can’t see her face from where he’s sitting. 

A few hours into their ride, they hit snowfall. Even with the partial tree cover, the snow is now at least three or four inches high. It’s becoming harder for Clarke to navigate Atropos through the forest trail, so they have to dismount to go on foot. 

She can hear Bellamy’s teeth chatter as he trails behind her, and after a mile or so she can’t take it anymore. 

“For the love of god, put one of the furs on,” she complains. 

“You put one on,” he shoots back, sounding more like a petulant child than a grown man. Clarke just rolls her eyes and makes a show out of grabbing her cloak out of her bag and putting it on. With a pointed look, she gestures for him to take one of the furs. 

She’s used to the cold—enjoys it, really—but if this is what it takes for him to put aside his stubborn pride, so be it. 

They continue walking for a while, but the snowfall continues to get worse. Dammit, they’ll have to stop and find shelter for the night. There’s no way they could go through the night like Clarke had hoped with the current weather conditions. 

So Clarke navigates them off the trail toward the cave she knows Lincoln uses as a hunting hideout nearby. 

“Where are we going?” 

“The snow is getting too thick to continue for much longer, and it’s better to stop now when I know of a nearby shelter than after dark when we’re stuck out in the open.” 

For a second she thinks he’s going to argue with her, and she gears up to fight him on it. She’s the one who has survived countless winters on the ground, and she wasn’t going to let his arrogance get them both frozen to death. But he seems to think better of it, and he just nods in agreement before gesturing for her to continue to lead the way. 

Once they get to Lincoln’s cave, she takes off Atropos’s bridle. She wouldn’t wander far, and she’d be much more comfortable for the night without a bit in her mouth. The horse snorts her approval, nudging Clarke with her nose. 

“What’s its name?” he asks hesitantly, coming up beside her. 

“ _ Her _ name is Atropos. Here,” she takes his hand in hers and guides it to the horse’s forehead. Atropos looks at him suspiciously for a moment before leaning into the touch. Clarke takes her hand back, and he smiles as he continues to pet the mare. 

“Atropos,” he repeats, his voice sounding a little funny. “Full of surprises, aren’t you Princess?” 

She doesn’t know how to respond to that. Yes, she named her horse after old Earth mythology that he probably doesn’t even recognize. But it suits her, and Clarke refuses to let herself wonder what he means by that comment. 

Instead, she turns away to pick up her bag and heads toward the opening of the cave, not addressing his comment. Footsteps crunch the snow behind her, so she doesn’t even bother looking to make sure he follows. 

“Clarke,” she says softly as she sets down her bag once they are inside. 

“What?” 

“My name is Clarke, not Princess.” She turns to look him in the eye but instead finds herself only a few inches from a very broad chest. She hadn’t realized he was so close behind her as they walked. 

Heat floods her cheeks, but she hopes the cave’s shadows mask her blush as she raises her chin to meet his gaze. He’s smirking at her, and she wants nothing more than to wipe it from his annoyingly handsome face. 

“And mine is Bellamy, not Skygonna.” He botches the pronunciation, and she can’t help but smirk at him. 

“Skaigona,” she corrects him. “And at least that’s not an insult.” 

“Who said Princess is an insult?” he asks, his voice teasing. Standing this close, she can see his freckles and part of her years to reach out and trace over them—connect them like constellations. 

Jok, she’s losing it. Clarke takes a hasty step back, rolling her eyes. “Let’s call it intuition,” she shoots back with her eyes narrowed.  _ He’s arrogant and judgemental _ , she reminds herself. Arranged marriage or not, they aren’t friends. They’re barely even allies. 

So she turns away from him to busy herself with starting a fire. Bellamy just looks at her for a moment before shaking his head and walking back outside. 

Lincoln must have stayed here recently because there are furs set up next to the firepit and some dried jerky sitting out in the corner. They brought enough food to share for the trip, but Clarke is glad to have some extra since she hadn’t planned on stopping for the night. 

She gets a small fire going and sets up two pallets on either side of the fire before heading outside to see where Bellamy had wandered off to. 

Clarke finds him only a couple hundred yards away in a clearing where the snowfall isn’t hindered by any branches. He’s just standing there, hands outstretched and face tilted up to the sky. 

It dawns on her that he’s probably never felt snow before today. They’d crash-landed back in early fall, and this was the winter’s first snow this far south. She watches him for a moment, admiring the contented smile on his face. But then she’s hit with an idea. 

As quietly as possible, she finds a good pile of snow and pacts a few handfuls into small snowballs. Once she has three or four ready to go, she takes aim and throws the first at her target. It hits him right in the middle of his back and he whips around at the attack. She sends a challenging smile his way before throwing another one. He dodges that one, but catches on quickly. 

Clarke gets one more shot in, hitting him right in the chest, before she runs out of ammo and has to retreat to make more. But by then Bellamy has a nice pile of his own, and he has a slightly better arm. 

She’s able to duck behind a tree at the first snowball he throws, but she has to step out from behind her hiding spot to throw her own, and she gets hit in the stomach with his next shot. With four snowballs cradled in her arm, she makes a run for it, but he just adjusts his aim. Clarke’s seen him throw his hand axe with startling accuracy before, so she doesn’t know what else she expected. 

They volley back and forth for Clarke doesn’t know how long, each keeping their distance for the most part. But then Clarke manages to sneak up on Bellamy while he’s replenishing his stockpile of ammo, and she smashes two handfuls down the back of his neck. His back arches and he cries out in an uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal as the cold snow drips down beneath his shirt and jacket. 

Clarke giggles hysterically at this hardened warrior bouncing around trying to get the rest of the snow out from under his shirt. She’s laughing so hard that she doesn’t realize the broad shoulders barreling toward her until she’s being tackled to the snow-covered ground. 

Bellamy somehow turns them mid-air so that he takes the brunt of the impact and she ends up laid out across his chest still laughing. Her blonde hair is falling out of it’s careful braid, and her cheeks are probably rosy and wind-chapped. She probably looks like an absolute mess, but he’s staring at her with a toothy grin. Clarke is a little mesmerized by it. God, he should smile more often. 

Mischief lights his eyes though, and before she can react a handful of snow hits her square on the cheek. She squeaks at the cold now dripping down her face and into her clothes, rolling away from him. 

“Truce?” 

“Truce,” she agrees, relaxing on the ground next to him. The snow is soaking her clothes, but she can’t find it in her to care. It’s been so long since she’s had fun like this. 

“So what was that for?” he asks, eyebrow quirked in curiosity as he props himself up on his side to look at her. 

“I’m supposed to be helping you acclimate to winter on the ground, and the first snow of the season isn’t complete with a snowball fight. I don’t make the rules, sorry,” she shrugs, feigning innocence.

He rolls his eyes good naturedly, nodding along. “Of course, how very charitable of you.” 

Another round of giggles escapes her, and the sound is almost foreign to her own ears. Clarke isn’t the kind of person who typically spends the afternoon in a snowball fight, and she certainly isn’t the kind of person who flirts while engaging in said snowball fights. 

He’s still propped up on one elbow, looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. They’re both still breathing hard, and she can see their breaths mingle as it hits the chilly air between them. Suddenly she’s hit with an almost overwhelming urge to close the distance and kiss him. His lips look soft and inviting, parted just slightly. And just as suddenly as that thought hits, another joins it: she could actually do it. They’re technically promised to each other now. 

She drags her gaze away from his lips and finds his own eyes darkened as if he could read exactly what she was thinking about. For one suspended moment, their eyes are locked. But then a shiver overtakes Clarke, and the moment is broken. 

“We should get back. Check on Atropos and the fire, get some rest before tomorrow,” she says, breaking eye contact. 

He stands up and offers her a hand that she takes. And as they walk back toward the cave, the sky getting darker with every step they take, Clarke mentally kicks herself for getting so distracted. 

This is a political alliance. And as attractive as Bellamy may be, he’s still the leader of Skaikru. They’ve been on opposite sides of a war since they landed, and that can’t be erased by an afternoon frolicking like teenagers in the snow. 

They get back to their shelter for the night, and Clarke silently tends to the fire while Bellamy pulls out some jerky and bread from their pack of food. It’s not exactly a comfortable silence, but Clarke isn’t sure how to break it. 

So she doesn’t. They eat in silence on opposite sides of the fire until Bellamy finally speaks. 

“We should set out our clothes to dry overnight.” She nearly chokes on her bite of jerky at that. Well, that certainly wasn’t what she was expecting him to break the silence with. 

The idea itself isn’t a bad one. She was freezing, which means he’s probably cold, too. And the last thing they’d want to do is ride the rest of the way to his camp in soggy clothes. But despite the fact that she’s far from a prude about her body—she’s the daughter of a healer and has seen her fair share of naked bodies in both medical and sexual contexts—something about the idea of stripping down to her underwear in front of Bellamy makes her nervous. 

Which is ridiculous. She’s going to be married to the guy, for goodness sake. Then again, maybe that’s precisely why her cheeks flush at the thought of him seeing her mostly naked. 

She pushes those thoughts aside and focuses on the practicality of the situation. Dry clothes will make for a better trip tomorrow, period. So she gets up and pulls Lincoln’s drying rack out away from the wall, shredding her cloak to lay on top. 

Bellamy follows suit, and they both undress in another stretch of semi-awkward silence in the dim light of the fire. Clarke does her best not to let her eyes stray to Bellamy as he takes off his shirt, but she catches a glimpse of his chiseled chest anyway. 

As soon as she’s down to her underwear, she curls up under a fur on her pallet. Not having her wet clothes sticking to her body certainly helps, but the cold ground still seeps through. 

Once Bellamy gets settled into his own palette, he must notice her shivering. 

“Get over here,” he sighs. She peeks at him over her shoulder and sees him lift the edge of his own furs, gesturing for him to move over toward him. “You’re obviously cold, and body heat will do us both good.” 

She considers declining. It’s hard enough keeping her eyes and hands to herself from across the cave. The last thing she needs is his bare chest curled up against her back all night. But there’s that stupid smirk and challenging gaze again, and she finds herself getting up to shuffle over toward him with her palette and furs in tow. 

With two layers beneath them, two layers on top, and each other’s body heat, Clarke feels herself settle into the warmth of his embrace. It’s odd how this more-or-less stranger makes her feel comforted and safe in a way she’s ever felt with anyone else before. She tries not to think about what that might mean. 

Instead, she closes her eyes and wills herselt to think about anything else. But then a warm hand ghosts across her shoulder blades, and she sucks in a deep breath. It’s an intimate gesture, but she finds that she doesn’t mind the sensation. 

“What are these scars?” he asks after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Each one represents a kill.” She holds her breath when he doesn’t respond right away. Her back is filled with the small, circular scars. She hates them, though her clan sees them as a source of pride and honor. All she sees are the eyes of every person she’s killed as the life was drained from them. 

When he doesn’t say anything, she feels the need to explain herself. “Do you know why Mount Weather is off limits?” 

“We assumed it was because it was Trikru territory.” 

“No, it’s no man’s land. The clans see it as cursed ground.” 

“What does this have to do with your scars,” he asks, his fingers still tracing patterns between the dots adorning her upper back. 

“Mount Weather used to be home to a group of people, the Mountain Men. For generations, they used their technology to systematically wipe us out—and not just Trikru. They turned good men into these monsters called Reapers and they would kidnap others to experiment on them.” Clarke shudders at the stories Anya and Lincoln have told her about what their time inside the mountain was like. 

“One of the people they took was my mom. At the time, she was the only family I had left, so I did everything I could to get her back. And that meant pulling the lever that killed every single person inside that mountain that wasn’t a grounder.” She sounds weak, voice filled with emotion. It’s like her body rejects the story every time she tells it. 

“Did you get her back?” 

She feels a tear slip down her cheek, the memory of her mother laying still on that table fresh on her mind like it was yesterday. “No.” 

“They made you get a scar for every person who died in the mountain?” He sounds disgusted at the idea, but Clarke shakes her head. 

“No, Anya actually argued against me getting the marks. But I wanted to remember the lives I’d taken. It felt wrong not to take responsibility for the destruction I caused.” 

“Wanheda,” he reads the script tattooed along her spine. “What does that mean?” 

“Commander of death. After Mount Weather, rumors about what happened spread like wildfire. Some hate me for what I did, and others fear me. There was a bounty for my head for a while, but Lexa—the commander—helped protect me.” 

She isn’t sure why she’s spilling her guts about this to him, but something about the soft glow of the fire and Bellamy’s quiet presence behind her as he traces over the proof of her sins put a crack in her armor. And then it was like it all just poured out of her. 

His hand stills and another silence stretches between them , and Clarke worries for a moment that she’s ruined whatever truce there was between them that started during that snowball fight outside. 

But then a tentative arm wraps around her waist and pulls her closer into his chest. 

“I would have helped you pull the lever,” he murmurs. 

Somehow, the admission helps soothe some of the hurt that remains deep inside of her. Clarke can’t turn back time and change what she did, and to be honest she isn’t entirely sure she regrets her choice. But the idea that in another lifetime, Bellamy would have stood beside her as she showed the world the darkness within her...it makes her feel a little less broken. 

“Atropos,” he connects the dots between her moniker and her horse’s name. “The fate that chooses which strings to cut.” 

“Seemed fitting,” she shrugs. “Wait, you know about old-Earth mythology?” she twists in his hold to look at him. 

“I like history,” he mirrors her shrug from moments before, and she gives him a small smile before settling back into her earlier position with her back to his chest. 

She can feel sleep start to encroach at the edges of her consciousness, but she isn’t quite ready to give up this moment. “Tell me something.” 

“Like what?” he questions. 

“I just spilled my guts. It’s your turn, Skaigona.” Her tone is teasing, and she nudges his stomach with her elbow as an added push. 

And he does. He talks about his sister, about what he did in order to join her on the ship that the delinquents (as he calls them) came down in. About his fears if the Ark does come down. 

_ They’ll have to go through me first _ , she thinks to herself sleepily. But when he chuckles behind her, the sound vibrating in his chest against her skin, she realizes she must have said it aloud. She can’t find the will to be embarrassed about the statement. 

The last thing she remembers before she drifts into unconsciousness is him murmuring goodnight and pressing a featherlight kiss to the back of her head. 

*** 

Clarke wakes up before Bellamy in the morning, light streaming through the cracks at the entrance to the cave. They must have shifted in the middle of the night because she is tucked into his side with her head on his chest and his arm locked firmly around her waist. 

She takes the opportunity to really look at him. His curls are a mess falling over his still-closed eyes, but he looks peaceful. The stubborn set to his jaw is relaxed, and there isn’t a scowl or a smirk twisting his lips. She still has to fight the urge to reach out and trace the distance between his freckles or the divet of the scar on his upper lip. 

It dawns on her that this could be her life, waking up next to him like this. And while the thought terrifies her a little, it also makes her smile. There’s still so much to figure out, so much to learn about him, before she feels comfortable giving her heart over. But he’s definitely more than just the arrogant warrior she thought he was just 24 hours prior. 

“See something you like, Princess?” his sleep-roughened voice pulls her from her thoughts. His eyes are still closed, but a smile is starting to pull at the corners of his mouth. She ought to be embarrassed for being caught staring at him, but she can’t muster it. 

“Do you have a problem with that?” she challenges back. He cracks an eye open at that, that small smile giving way to a toothy grin. And she can’t stop herself from leaning in. 

His lips are just as soft as they look, and one of her hands comes up to rest against his cheek. When she pulls back, he’s staring at her with that same unreadable expression on his face. 

“What was that for?” 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “We’re going to get married for our people, and I wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss you.” 

The simple explanation must be enough for him, because he threads a hand through her hair now completely undone from yesterday’s braid and pulls her in for another kiss—this one longer and deeper than the first. 

It’s cliche, but it really does feel like a puzzle piece she’s been missing falls into place as his lips chase hers. 

There’s so much to learn about each other, and so much to figure out. They’re still basically strangers and they’re headed into a tough winter. He’s still the stubborn leader who caused her more than one sleepless night, and she’s still the broken girl who turned the mountain into a burial ground. A political marriage won’t magically fix everything. 

But maybe, just maybe, they could be the start of real peace. She’d wished for just that days earlier at the winter solstice festival—a holiday that used to be called Christmas before the bombs dropped almost a century ago. 

Maybe they were the beginning of her wish coming true. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are always appreciated! ❤️ 
> 
> Come scream at me on [Tumblr (@stealing-jasons-job)](https://stealing-jasons-job.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter (MadsWritesStuff)](https://twitter.com/MadsWritesStuff).


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